#last one currently sweeping the office making me struggle to keep a straight face on camera

[aldieb]

author photo controversies through the years:

author too hot

author says it makes him look like a republican

author looks like he would call you “milady”

[callsign-rogueone]

keep her safe - g.t.

Garrick Tavis x Marked!Pacifist!Reader  This one is for my fellow tired, chronic pain girls who just want their suffering to serve some purpose, and those who trust everyone they meet, even if they shouldn’t. wc: 4.7k -- the longest work I've ever put on this blog! second chapter is here! 🏷: spoilers for both Fourth Wing books (I’m currently 500 pages into Iron Flame, and y’all... 😭) people refer to you with she/her pronouns, canon-typical violence and torture, mentions of canon character death / death of a family member, bad coping mechanisms, Dain and his memory reading (I tried to make him more tolerable), one (1) reference to sex, I gave you a last name (Avan) and Garrick calls you angel as a pet name, because I refuse to use y/n. Your dragon's name is Tab.

Your stomach drops as your name is called for a challenge. “No weapons today.” Emeterrio adds. “I want you to work on your hand-to-hand.”

The pair of you unsheath nearly a dozen knives apiece, you handing yours to Bodhi. Disarmed, you extend a hand to the boy, as is the Tyrrish tradition before a friendly spar, but he doesn’t take it. No unmarked ones ever have.

He charges first, tangles a hand in your hair and pulls, jerking your head back, and the crowd of freshmen gasp, but you plant your feet and move with him, twisting your spine with practiced ease.

That gives you enough distance to kick a leg out at his right knee, hitting him squarely in the back of it. He releases you. Another swift kick to his legs has them sweeping out from under him. You dig a thumb into his collarbone, finding just the right spot, and he crumples, giving you a split second to wrap your arm around his throat.

He claws at your elbow with blunt nails, wasting breath as he attempts to rise to his feet, but you keep him pinned with your body weight, bearing down as hard as you can. He bucks, and your left boot skids against the mat. 

You bend your knee to brace yourself in a lunge. Your arm is starting to falter, he can feel the muscle straining around his jaw, but he’s tiring too — running out of air. If neither of you moves, he’s going to die.

“Enough,” Emeterrio commands.

You release him, extending a hand to pull him up, but he smacks it away and dives straight at you, clearly not done. “I’m not letting you off that easily, traitor.” 

You squeak in surprise, your back hitting the mat with a thud, and he lands another blow to your jaw. You struggle to take control back, gasping for breath from how hard you’d hit the floor.

He gathers your wrists into one hand easily, the other closing around your throat.

“You are going to die on this mat if you don’t do something, now. Use the failsafe.” 

There’s one dagger you hadn’t removed, that you’d won from Garrick in combat your first year, that he’d let you win, really, and promptly ordered that you never remove it from your reach, for situations like this.

He doesn’t have your legs pinned, so you kick out, catching him in the thigh, and his grip falters. You manage to wiggle one arm free to pull the blade from the inside of your jacket, rolling onto your side and holding the point millimeters away from his chest. “Yield,” you order, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You won’t kill me,” He snarls. “Everyone knows you’re all bark and no bite. That’s why you keep him around.”

You drag it down, just enough to tear his shirt. “Yield, or you’ll meet Malek today and you can explain to him what a cheating coward you are.” The words surprise you, but you fight to maintain the hardened look on your face, trying to convince him you’re serious. 

“Fine,” he spits, “I yield.”

Heart still pounding, you move to lean against the wall with the other marked ones, Bodhi handing you back your arsenal blade by blade. 

“She cheated!” Jason protests as soon as he’s standing again.

“She did what was necessary after you defied a direct order from a superior officer,” Emeterrio says narrowly.

Jason glowers, but returns to his friends without further argument. The rest of the pack takes note of their faces; they’re likely as conniving as him, and as liable to try to kill you, too.

“I’m gonna end that motherfucker,” Garrick mutters, checking you over for injuries as subtly as he can. He hands you a scrap of cloth and you wipe the blood from your nose, wincing, but grateful it isn’t broken.

“He’s been at this for months. One of these days, he’s going to kill you.” Bodhi says quietly, his gaze not moving from the next sparring pair.

“Why not kill him first?” Imogen asks. “You had a knife to his gut, you should have used it.”

“No.” You say firmly. “To kill anyone unmarked, especially an officer’s son, would confirm what everyone else in this army believes about Tyrs; that we are bloodthirsty animals.”

“Let them believe that,” she scoffs. “They’ll never change their mind.”

You sigh. Maybe she’s right.

You don’t see your friends for the next ten hours, when you’re finally excused for dinner.

“Where the hell have you been?” Bodhi asks. 

“Medical wing,” you rasp, sliding into a seat at the end of the bench. “Mending infantry with Carr.” 

“You should eat,” Liam says softly, pushing a plate toward you, but you shake your head no, every muscle in your body screaming. 

You look like your head is going to hit the table, your neck no longer able to hold it up. Bodhi pulls you into his side and you slump against him, boneless. “Her signet isn’t fully developed yet,” you hear him explain to Violet and Liam. “She’ll be okay. She just needs to rest.”

When you wake, it’s dark out, the room nearly pitch black, but you can tell it’s not yours — the furniture is arranged differently.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, gentle one,” Tab greets as soon as you’re cognizant. He can only be this dry about it because he knew you’d pull through. “If he makes you do that again, I’ll eat him.”

You laugh, wincing at the pain in your ribs. Your entire body aches. There’s no way you got up the three flights of stairs here yourself — you didn’t even have it in you to chew food at dinner.

There’s a comforting scent to the room — all the soap and detergent everyone uses is standard issue, but something about the sheets smells like Garrick. Your theory is confirmed when he walks through the door, the hallway light illuminating the hilts of the two swords strapped to his back. “If you want me in your bed, Gare, you just need to ask,” you say in greeting.

He laughs dryly, waving a hand to activate a small mage light. “The damage can’t be too bad if you’re already cracking jokes.”

“I missed physics, didn’t I? Did you carry me up here?”

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about. You can copy Violet’s notes, they’re way better than mine.” He strips some of the weapons off, shedding his flight jacket along with them. It’s something you’ve seen many times before, but it never fails to make your heart flutter.

He sits on the edge of the bed, a gentle hand moving up to lay against your cheek. “And I did carry you. I’d do anything for you, angel. It scares me sometimes.”

He brushes a piece of hair from your face. You’d been freezing cold when you fell asleep, so he’d draped you with every blanket he owned before leaving, and it seems to have worked — your skin is pleasantly warm against his hand.

“Anything, hm?” You ask, a lazy smile on your face. 

His eyes sparkle at the mischief in your tone, but he’s responsible enough to think before he acts. “Not until you’ve recovered,” he says sternly. 

You yawn. “D’you have section leader stuff to do tonight?”

“That’s what executive officers are for.”

You crack an eye to look at him in disapproval. “Gare, you can’t skip duty. Melgren will have your head.”

He sighs. “Fine. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t. Your bed is more comfortable than mine anyway.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, tugging the jacket back on and strapping in the swords.

/////////

Someone is standing in front of your yoga mat. Dain. “No bodyguard today?” He asks.

You’re silent, your gaze flickering between him and the longsword by your side, the one Garrick had insisted you take with you everywhere when he wasn’t there to protect you.

“You may find this hard to believe, but I don’t want to kill you.” He says with a sigh. “I just need to-”

“Quit talking and join me, or leave.” You interrupt, settling into a deeper stretch, eyes closing as you gesture to the floor next to you with an open hand. By the grace of Amari, Carr had given you enough time off to recover, but he’ll likely be making you work another shift in the infirmary today. This will be your only pocket of calm for the next twelve hours. You aren’t going to skip it for Dain, of all people.

He chooses the first option, surprising you as he drags a mat over beside yours, attempting to copy your movements. “Do you really do this every day?” He asks, uncomfortable.

“Even a soldier must take time to be at peace. Clear your mind. Whatever you’re thinking about is so loud it’s distracting.”

He startles, his foot slipping on the mat.

“No, my signet is not mind-reading.” You say, eyes still closed, though there’s an amused look on your face. “Relax. You’re killing the air in here with that nervous energy.”

For the next five minutes, you both stretch in total silence. “Now,” you decide, bringing your arms back to your body, focusing on your breathing, “what was so important that you needed to find me here?”

He cuts straight to it. “Varrish wants me to… practice on you. He thinks you’re hiding something, that all of you are.” He doesn’t need to specify who he means by you. 

You don’t seem to react to the information, instead looking at him with curiosity. “How do you feel about your signet?” 

He blinks. Nobody’s ever asked him that before. “I don’t know.” He says quietly. You shift again, but he doesn’t follow you, folding his legs underneath him instead. Your silence presses him to speak, needing to fill the air. “I used to think it was cool, but now… now I’m wondering if it’s really a gift at all.”

“What do you see when you view a memory like that? Are you living it through their eyes, or from above, watching it unfold? How far back can you see?”

“Through their eyes.” He answers, throat dry. Why is he telling you this? “A day, maybe two. It depends. Varrish wants me to learn to push it farther.”

You weigh the consequences. If he’s being honest, he won’t see anything confidential — at worst, a gathering of more than three marked ones to exercise, but is he really petty enough to tell Varrish about that, when he’s giving you a warning in the first place?

“Okay.” You say, opening your eyes. Better it be you than one of the kids who can’t shield their memories yet, or Garrick or Bodhi, who would rip him limb from limb if he tried to touch them.

“What?”

“I’m going to go about my day now as if this conversation never happened,” you say, looking him in the eye, unflinching, “and you’re going to do what you have to do to satisfy Varrish’s demands — with me and only me. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” he stammers, shocked that you’re letting him do this.

“Good.” You pick up the longsword, strapping it back in along your spine. “Dain?” You call over your shoulder. “I won’t make it easy for you.” You say, and he knows that’s a promise.

“That was an incredibly stupid decision, gentle one. A noble decision, but stupid nonetheless.” Tab speaks into your mind on the way back up to your room. “You cannot always assume everyone has good intentions. It would have been your downfall by now, if not for your mate’s protection.”

“Stop calling Garrick my mate. That’s weird.” You deflect, not wanting to unpack his earlier words.

“Forgive me. Dragons do not have a word for a relationship as trivial as a boyfriend.”

You build up a mental wall like Xaden had taught you, ending the argument. 

When Varrish calls you into his office that afternoon, you already know what it’s for. “Take a seat,” he says with a smile that you know isn’t meant to be friendly.

He sees the way your eyes immediately narrow at the sight of Dain — everyone knows how the quadrant’s golden boy feels about marked ones, and how you feel about him. You’re going to be doing some very good acting today.

The door closes and locks behind you, and your stomach flips as you feel the sound shield form and press up against the office walls. There’s no escape, and no screaming for help, but you know what you’ve walked into. You signed up for it this morning.

“To what do I owe this meeting, Major?” You ask respectfully, lowering yourself into the chair beside Dain.

“Professor Carr has made me aware that both of your signets have been slow to develop. We’re going to spend your leisure time today practicing, in hopes that you will finally improve.” A very convincing lie, you’ll admit. If Dain hadn’t come to you this morning, you might have believed it. “No objections?” He asks, waiting for you to protest.

“No, sir.” You say calmly, Dain answering the same a beat behind you.

“Good. Aetos, you first.”

It takes every ounce of self control not to squirm as Dain stands, stepping toward you. You lift your chin, closing your eyes -- a gesture of consent small enough to fly under the Vice Commandant’s radar.

You may be letting him try, but you’d told him this wouldn’t be easy. You block him out completely, raising your mental shield and barring the gates.

“What do you see?” Varrish asks.

Dain doesn’t answer. He does not push, does not attempt to kick the door down or dig below the foundation. He stands outside, waiting for you to give him something. 

The crack of his nose breaking has your eyes flying open, the coppery scent of blood starting to fill the room immediately as he staggers back into his chair.

“Your turn, Avan."

You stand, laying a gentle hand on Dain’s jaw to tilt it up, stopping the blood from pouring down his shirt. 

He looks up at you, stunned, but lets you touch the broken cartilage with your fingertips, and moments later it feels like nothing ever happened. It’s mind-bending.

“Very good. Aetos, try again. What was she doing this morning?”

Dain stands, angling his body between yours and Varrish’s so that the Major can’t see the apology he mouths before his hands touch your forehead. Whether he can see his conversation with you in the gym is unclear. He lies through his teeth either way. “She was alone,” he answers, “on a run to the flight field and back.” 

“And then?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes not leaving yours. “A shower, breakfast. Eggs. An apple. Toast. She sat with Tavis and two other marked ones.” He leaves out Violet from the group, not wanting to implicate her. Interesting. 

That much is true, but it’s part of your everyday routine — he could have easily gleaned that from watching you across the mess hall. Is he still locked out?

Varrish stands, rounding the corner of his desk. “Let’s make this a little harder, shall we?”

Dain screams as a dagger pierces his arm, thrashing in his chair. Varrish twists the blade as he pulls it out, letting Dain’s blood drip to the floor. This is why he needed the sound shield.

Your eyes widen, and the adrenaline has you leaping to your feet to fix it. You press a hand into the wound, apologizing when he winces. It takes you longer than it should for the muscle to repair itself.

“You care more about him than I thought.” Varrish muses.

You turn to him, anger flickering in your chest. “It is my moral obligation to help the wounded.”

He tuts. “You would have made an excellent healer, had your parents not committed high treason. Aetos, again. Find something older.”

Dain trembles as he stands, and you take pity on him. You push an older memory forward, a happy one, remembering it as vividly as you can.

You watch together as you sprint through the forest, stopping dead in your tracks as you see two cadets fighting. The one losing is a smaller girl in your class whose name Dain can’t remember, a tall, muscled boy towering over her, sword ready to strike.

You spring forward, catching him by surprise and effectively disarming him, and he chooses to abandon the sword and run rather than fight the both of you. You extend a hand to pull the girl to her feet and her eyes widen further, staring up not at you, but behind you.

You feel a burst of heat against your back — not hot enough to be fire. Steam. You bow your head in deference, turning slowly to give the girl time to run… And the dragon bows back. What the fuck?

“You did not kill the boy.” It says directly into your mind.

“I did not.” You answer aloud, not sure if humans can do that.

“Have you ever killed before, gentle one?”

“I haven’t.” Should you be embarrassed? Dragons are violent, surely they would see this as a sign of weakness.

“Not all of us.”

“Holy shit, you can read my mind.”

The girl laughs in disbelief, and you realize you’ve just bonded a dragon.

“In time you’ll learn to control that. But your friend needs to get moving, and so do we.”

You wish her luck before scaling the leg of your dragon and taking a seat.

“Hold on.”

You shriek in happiness like a child as he jumps up, and seconds later you’re thousands of feet in the air, looking down at Basgiath and the valley below. When you return to the flight field, you find Garrick there with a giant brown Scorpiontail, bloodied but happy as he stands next to Xaden and the biggest blue daggertail you’ve ever seen. You pull them both into a hug, just grateful they’re alive.

“Careful, angel,” Garrick warns, grinning into your hair, “we just might make it out of here.”

You cut Dain off there, yanking back the memory before slamming your shields back up. He can have that moment, but only that moment.

“Threshing,” Dain says. Thank the gods. “She helped another cadet who was being attacked. That’s why Tab chose her, for her kindness.”

You both look at Varrish for further instruction. Your shields have been weakening with every injury you repair, but so have Dain’s abilities. You don’t know how many more rounds either of you can take. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” He says, sounding pleased. “I’ll see you again on Wednesday morning, to check your progress. You’re dismissed.”

The sound shield dissipates, the door unlocking. The only evidence is Dain’s blood, smeared across his face and arms, drying on the floor and under your nails. You commit the sight to memory, tucking it into the same folder that holds the death of your parents, and slam the drawer shut.

It takes you five minutes to scrub the blood out of the cracks in your palms and from under your nails. Your fingertips are wrinkled when you step into the gym.

“Why did Tab tell Chradh that you were called into Varrish’s office with Aetos?” Garrick asks, remarkably calm as he toys with one of his smaller daggers.

“Because he’s a meddling mother hen.” You answer, avoiding the question.

“Watch it.”  Tab warns. “Tell him the truth, or we will.”

You know he’s not bluffing. “He wanted us to practice our signets on each other.”

“Dain practiced his signet, his memory-reading signet, on you?” He asks, already simmering with anger.

“This morning, he came to me to warn me about Varrish’s plan, and I told him it was okay. I used my shields, and I only showed him what I wanted to. We’re supposed to do it again Wednesday.”

Your eyes communicate something else you won’t say aloud, not in front of everyone, and not when you know Dain might be able to see this conversation in two days. I did this to take the heat off of the others. You know I was the safest choice.

Garrick sighs. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I’d like to state for the record that I hate this plan. Literally everything about it. Except for Aetos being stabbed, maybe.” Of course Chradh told him about that. He’d have been delighted by the news, despising both him and Cath.

You give him a look.

“Okay, fine. I take that back.”

He doesn’t. 

By Wednesday, the pain in the bridge of your nose is gone, but your arm is still tender where Dain had been stabbed. Bodhi joins you in the gym, stretching with you for a few minutes before he settles into a plank at your side, his eyes never leaving the door.

Dain does not make an appearance at breakfast, notably absent from the leadership table.

Garrick excuses himself as soon as he sees you stand with your tray, catching you by the doors. “Remember that you’re stronger than both of them in all the ways that matter,” he says quietly. “I’ll find you as soon as you’re done.” You both tap your chest twice before parting ways, as has been your tradition for years -- a reminder that even though you’re leaving, you still hold the other in your heart.

Each step up to Varrish’s office is another reminder of what’s to come when you reach the top. “Cadet Avan,” he greets with another sickening smile. “Just in time. We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Your jaw drops at the sight of Dain slumped into the same chair as last time, bloodied and exhausted.

“Nothing fatal,” Varrish reassures. “Not if you act quickly. Go ahead, get started.”

The Vice Commandant’s words have you on edge as you assess him, looking for gaping wounds or broken bones. Dain winces as your hands move over his ribs, and you whisper an apology, pressing in deeper. When your chest starts to ache, you know it’s time to move on. You mend two broken ribs, dissolve a purple bruise on his arm, and fix a split lip, but Dain still hasn’t woken up.

You turn back to Varrish. “One left,” he says. “Use your head.”

Oh, gods. He’d given Dain a concussion, because he knows the migraine it’ll give you will make it harder to shield. You cradle the second-year’s head in your hands, breathing out deeply as you transfer the pain from his body to yours, healing the bruised tissue. Dain blinks himself awake as you stumble, the room suddenly spinning.

“Well done. Aetos?”

You fumble for the arms of your chair, vision blurring at the edges, but you manage to sit back down.

“Say the word, and I get your mate,” Tab offers. He can probably feel your disorientation, concerned you won’t be able to block Dain out in this state.

“No,” you rasp back. “If he shows up, Varrish will have us practice on him instead.”

 You need to pick another memory to satisfy Varrish, something older, but your brain isn’t firing on all cylinders. Dain gives you a moment to gather yourself, a small gesture of mercy.

“A moment of pure happiness,” Tab suggests. “Something with the wingleader and your mate.”

You flip back in the book of your life, nearly all the way to the beginning, opening it to the right page to give to Dain and slipping it under the gate with a nod of your head — you’re ready.

Dain’s hands are warm against your freezing cheeks. A boy no older than five that he recognizes as Garrick crouches under a desk across the room, holding a finger to his lips. 

“Wherever could those children possibly be?” Someone muses aloud, and you fight laughter as the voice grows closer, thinking it amusing that this adult has no idea you’re hiding in the curtains.

Footsteps retreat, and Garrick signals for you to move. You make it down the hallway before you see someone searching — presumably whatever parent you’d convinced to play with you. Small hands tug you both behind a plush velvet couch. Xaden. 

You press yourselves up against it, trying to be as quiet as possible, watching as a shadow forms on the wall in front of you, then a head peers over the back of the couch — that must be your father. He looks just like you, has the same warm smile.

“One more, and then I need to get back to work,” He says, already moving to cover his eyes and starting to count to one hundred. You each run off in a different direction, and the scene fades there.

“A childhood memory,” Dain says. “Playing hide and seek in her father’s office with Riorson and Tavis.”

Not good enough for Varrish. “Give me something I can use,” he snarls, a Freudian slip, but nothing either of you hadn’t known already. 

You flip forward in the book, settling on a page you never look at, that you can’t bear to, but that Varrish will revel in. You rip it out, sliding it under the gate. “Bad,” you whisper, the only warning you can manage.

Dain nods in permission, ready to watch whatever memory you’ve pushed forward.

Someone presses a small stone into your hand, an intricate overlap of shapes and lines engraved on one side, the other perfectly smooth.

“Do not put it down, even for a moment,” your father says. He’s aged between now and the last memory, starting to go gray at his temples. “Keep it in your hand until the end. It will protect you when we can’t.”

He looks next to Garrick. “She is everything good about the world.” He says quietly. “Take care of her.”

Garrick promises he will, and your father pulls you into one last embrace before he leaves. Tears blur your vision, Garrick pulling you close. “It’ll be okay,” he soothes. “They’ll come back.”

Hours pass that Dain can’t see, because you don’t remember them. 

There’s an ache in your palm from clutching the stone so hard, the rounded corners digging into your skin. Garrick takes your free hand in his, interlocking your fingers. Then there’s only screaming and fire and rage, heat burning up your arm as it’s marked with inky swirls. Until the end, your father had said. This must have been what he meant.

“Her parents’ execution,” Dain says, a note of genuine hurt in his voice. “They gave each child a runestone before they left, as protection.”

Varrish’s eyes rake over to you. He leans forward, yanking on the leather cord that disappears into the neck of your shirt hard enough to pull your body with it. “A runestone like this one?”

“Yes,” you answer before Dain can, saving him the lie. You shut your eyes, wincing as the cold edge of a knife brushes against your neck and the cord breaks, a single drop of warm blood running down your collarbone. You don’t protest, you can’t, your mind still hazy and eyes wet with tears from reliving the memory with Dain.

“That will be all.” Varrish dismisses. He doesn’t make an appointment for you to come back. He has what he needs.

You stand, relying on your knowledge of the office’s layout to navigate your way forward until the door closes behind you.

“I’m so sorry,” Dain breathes once you’re down the hall far enough to avoid being heard. “If I had known,”

“It’s okay. The rune is long dead, and he has no idea how to recreate it. I’m just glad he didn’t hurt you again.” You blink, trying to clear your head. How are you going to get down all these stairs? You can hardly see.

“Here,” he says quietly, extending a hand. You take it, letting him loop an arm over his shoulders — your right, the one that Varrish hadn’t bruised black and blue on Dain — and lead you one step at a time.

You’re halfway down when you hear heavy footsteps running up the stairs. Garrick. He’d promised he’d find you when you were done. He doesn’t spare a glance at Dain, gathering you into his arms and apologizing when he puts pressure on your not-broken ribs.

Dain watches as the older boy carries you down the rest of the stairs, murmuring reassurances to you all the while. Your father’s words echo in his mind. “Take care of her.”

Garrick Tavis is a man of his word.

[handonshipper]

If I Knew Then What I Know Now: Chapter One

Time. What was time? Was it a straight line that followed cause and effect perfectly? Was it a serpent that slid around in a circle, over and over again, repeating the same events with no chance of an ending? Or was it simply an abstract concept humans invented because of their never-ending need to control everything around them?

Landon Kirby didn't know. Time had escaped him. As he walked around the city he was currently in, he wasn't entirely sure how long he had been in the prison world. He wasn't sure how long he had been away from the girl he loved with all his heart. And the reality was, he wasn't sure it mattered. Whether it was weeks, months, or years, he would love her and he knew she would love him.

Landon took a step inside a warehouse and looked around cautiously. Several of the monsters were still in Mystic Falls, but he knew some had left. Landon was not going to stop being careful. He looked around the warehouse that looked similar yet different to how it had been a year previously, when Clarke had brought him here to find the third artifact. It seemed like a lifetime ago after everything that has happened since.

"Why do you still need me?" Landon had asked, confused as to why they were still there. Why he couldn't just leave.

"I don't need you. Daddy does." Clarke had replied, siting in a chair. "You're the golden child. The one he was trying to create, remember? The perfect son. The one who could create the new bloodline. Because of you, he'll be able to launch the species."

" I'm . I'm not interested in, like, procreating or whatever, okay? Especially if it means I'm spawning an army of evil minions."

"Oh, didn't I mention? You're just the host."

"The what? "

"The host. Biologically speaking, - you're the living organism... - "

"I know what a host is! I've seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Are you kidding me? Tell me you're pulling some kind of lame brotherly prank right now."

"You wanted to be special, right? The foster kid looking for a family, believing that you had a purpose if only you could find it. Turns out your purpose is to be a meat suit for the most powerful monster ever to walk the earth."

And Landon had. For a short time anyway before he died in this very prison world and came back to life.

His hand lowered down a bit to the bone whip hanging down beside his leg. He remembered the first time he had seen the headless horseman. How he had let it sweep him up and carry him out there towards Malivore. He was much less equipped to fight at that time. Now, however, he knew how to fight to survive. And he had been doing it nonstop since he arrived in the prison world after escaping Malivore.

Without making a sound, Landon walked over to the shelves. It was more empty than it had been before. Some people from Triad probably had cleared it out a bit after their attack on the Salvatore School. The organization was no longer active as far as Landon knew. He picked up one of the artifacts and looked down, examining it before setting it down. His mind was turning in thought as he looked at everything that remained on the shelves, and he started walking down the aisles, trying to see if there was possibly anything he could use to get him home. He had read some books while hiding out in places, trying to find a way out. He read about a few artifacts and decided to come see this warehouse.

If there was any chance at all that there was a way out here, he had to try. Even if he had no idea if they were here or even if they would actually help him achieve his goal. But he wasn't going to sit around and wait for someone else to find him. He was going to get himself home. No matter what it took.

Suddenly, Landon felt himself still as he heard the slightest noise. He turned his head and pulled out his machete with small stains of blood on it, ready to fight. He moved silently further away from where he heard the sound, careful not to bump any of the shelves as he prepared himself to fight.

Though once he caught sight of the creature, he felt fear course through him. He recognized it. It was the same creature that had made him hallucinate getting rescued over and over again. It was the same creature that ensured he couldn't trust anything he saw. And that terrified him. Stealthily, Landon moved around as the creature got further inside. Landon gripped the blade in his hand and got behind the creature for an upper hand. He moved to strike at it but got thrown back into one of the shelves, causing artifacts to clutter to the floor.

Landon winced slightly as he felt the cut on his arm but ignored it and quickly got up before going to fight the creature. After a bit of a struggle, he cut off its head. He started counting in his head, familiar with how long it took them to resurrect, and he picked up some artifacts off of the floor. He touched one and suddenly, the room was full of a white light that sucked him in.

After blinking a little, he began to process where he was. In front of him was the familiar Mystic Grill sign on the window of the bar and grill. He stilled in confusion, wondering how he had gotten there. In his lightly visible reflection on the window, Landon noticed the bright blue coloring of the Mystic Grill uniform on his body.

"Hello?" One of the teenagers from Mystic Falls High questioned, somewhat snapping him out of his thoughts.

In front of him were two teenagers, a blonde and a brunette, both about 16. The brunette who had spoken to him looked at him with a mix of confusion, annoyance, and expectancy. It was only then that he realized he was holding a tray with two drinks. She was a customer. His customer.

This couldn't be real. It had to have been that creature messing with his mind. It didn't make sense. There was no way he could have gotten out like that. And even if he did, he was missing his outfit and his weapons, which made him feel very vulnerable. He breathed out a little and gave them their drinks before leaving without a word.

His heart was racing a little as he looked around. There were people. All sorts of people. But it wasn't the first time he had hallucinate being rescued and getting out. Though usually Hope was right there with him. He wasnt sure what was going on. But a hallucination was the only thing that made sense. He found himself a few knives, a lighter, and a change of clothes and then went towards the Salvatore School, wanting to see Hope if by some miracle it wasnt a hallucination.

Once he arrived, he froze a bit, thinking. He had to make sure nothing came with him. He would stay in the woods for now just to make sure and then he would go in once he knew it was safe. Though he would feel a lot better with his weapons and mask. Landon was still expecting himself to suddenly be pulled out of this.

Landon got passed the gate and looked around a little. He distanced himself from the school but was close enough at the moment that he could see the people walking about as he hid. He couldn't see Hope from where he was yet so he retreated further into the woods, planning to find her again soon. Make sure she was alright.

By the end of the day, he still couldn't see Hope anywhere. He hesitated before sneaking inside the school at night. He needed to make sure she was alright. Then he'd leave to finish making sure nothing had followed him. Then he'd reunite with her.

Landon moved quietly up to her room, swiftly hiding once someone was about to pass, and he finally reached her room. He quietly opened the door, knowing if she saw him that the reunion would happen sooner than he planned. But if it did, he'd just make sure to keep an eye around everything else. Though Landon still wasn't sure this was real. He kept expecting himself to snap out of the hallucination.

He creeped open the door to her bedroom and stepped inside. There was only one bed, and she was not in it. He frowned a little and gracefully moved to her desk. Her room looked quite different. Full of things he had not expected to see. He looked down at things that were on her desk, wanting to get an idea of how long he had been gone. Though that still wouldn't answer the question of why he was suddenly at Mystic Grill in his old uniform. He looked at a photo of her family and kept his gaze on it for a moment before continuing to look. He saw notes for school. Labeled with a date from three years before Landon went into Malivore. This didn't make sense. And where was Hope?

He looked around and stilled as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He looked younger. His hairstyle, his face's shape... it was all younger. He pulled up the sleeve of his arm and noticed the lack of scars. His recent wound was no longer there. What was there was a recent cigarette burn. He ran his thumb over it gently, barely noticing the pain. Was it possible to be in the past? Was this part of a hallucination or did he somehow escape and travel back in time? It didn't make sense, but he supposed anything was possible at this point.

Landon looked around and climbed out of the window before landing down at the ground before sneaking into the office once he saw it was empty. He assumed they must be in bed, though like always, he kept his hearing alert. Trusted his instincts. He went over to the secret small room and pulled out a couple of the weapons, shoving it into a bag he had found. He closed the secret door carefully, making sure to be quiet. Looking at the desk, he found confirmation that it definitely seemed like the time when he was 15. With this in mind, he slipped out of the office and left the school. He got himself a bus ticket to New Orleans and took a seat at the bus stop. His mind brought him back to the last time he was journeying to New Orleans.

"What is this?" Landon had asked as Hope put a magical bracelet around his wrist

"Think of it like a... 'click your heels together three times' kind of thing. If you ever need me, just press it, and my bracelet will lead me to you." she had told him, looking back up at him.

She had started to leave, and he pressed the button on his bracelet. She turned to look at him.

"I wanted to see if it worked." He had explained to her, and they had rushed to each other before kissing in front of the bus that had been approaching.

He looked away and stood up as a bus arrived before getting on, ready to find Hope. He was tense and relieved that not many people were on the bus. He knew it was going to take time for him to get used to being around anyone. But right now, what mattered more than his lack of social skills and the fact this could all be fake or the possibility of being ambushed was finding Hope. Though his body didn't ease up the whole ride to New Orleans, and he kept expecting to suddenly be back at the prison world with the monster.

[virmillion]

I’ll Bring You the Moon - T minus 60 seconds

Masterpost - Previous Chapter [this is the first chapter] - Next Chapter - ao3

Words: 3,492

“Yikes, already dipping out for the day?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Well, hey, at least you finished all the major work for the week, right? Now you just get to relax on breaks.”

“That’s what you think.” Logan grins as he squeezes into the stairwell, nodding his thanks as one of the other interns holds the door open for him. She hefts her messenger bag higher on her shoulders before stooping to grab something off the floor and hand it to Logan.

“Butterfingers.”

“Thanks, Almond Joy.” Logan tilts his head as she slides the pen behind his ear, where it’s rarely obedient enough to stay. “It was Joy, right?”

“Right.” Joy lets the door slip shut as Logan begins his descent, still cocking his head to the side in hopes that the pen won’t fall again.

Five flights of stairs and two near-fumbles with the stack of papers in his arms later, Logan averts his gaze as he strolls through the front door. Lingering just outside the entrance is one of his bosses, holding a cup of coffee and a travel thermos of oatmeal. Logan stares at his shoes as the warm spring air smacks him in the face like a soggy paper towel, hoping against hope that his boss won’t—

Nope. “Hey, Lucas, can you hang back a sec?” To be fair, it wasn’t Mx. Oatmeal calling him, but Logan holds in a groan anyway. He begrudgingly turns to see another of the fifth floor interns—Cassidy, if memory serves him correctly—rushing for the exit and clutching a mess of folders to her chest. The blue and red symbols decorating the logo on her cap look frayed enough to fall right off. “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you! Here, they wanted us to do these reports, too,” Cassidy says, fanning out her burden flat until her eyes come to rest on a thick manila folder. She holds it out to Logan, continuing, “I heard you were set to be done early today, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t walking in to a master disaster of aluminum and plaster tomorrow because they decided to wait until the last minute.”

As a floormate of hers, Logan has long since grown used to the haphazard, uh, cadence with which Cassidy talks. He barely lifts an eyebrow, merely thumbing through some of his new papers and scrunching his nose to adjust his glasses. His heart comes incredibly close to tottering right off the cliff it calls home when he sees the bright red seal obscuring the last few pages. Classified information enclosed—NASA clearance level eight.

“Ah, Cassidy?” Logan says, squinting at the bold words and praying she hasn’t left yet. “Which ‘they’ are we talking about when we say we’re waiting until the last minute?” When she hesitates to answer, Logan glances up. Saying the gleam in her eye is disorienting would be an understatement.

“Oh, you know, only the tippity toppitiest, higher uppitiest ‘they’ we have. Higher than Mx. Oatmeal, actually. Higher than Katie-Lee, too, I think. We’re not even supposed to discuss the contents of our own folders with each other, that’s how secret it is. Why, what’s in yours?”

“I feel like you kind of missed the whole thing you just said about these folders being secret,” Logan says, snapping his folder shut and placing it in the middle of his already oversized stack. “Was that it?”

“Yup!” Cassidy spins on her heel and walks back in through the out door, shuffling her feet so she doesn’t cross paths with Mx. Oatmeal. Logan waits until she disappears into the elevator and the lobby appears silent before turning to leave again.

“Well, I can’t exactly take this straight home,” Logan mumbles to himself. Work life separate from home life, and all that fun stuff. “Maybe to a cafe? No, too loud, too public. A bookstore’s probably too shady to walk into, dressed for work like this.” Realizing he’s blocking both the exit and the ramp from the sidewalk to the street as he currently stands, Logan’s feet carry him to the right, pacing alongside the bike lane as he continues muttering and arguing with himself.

Before he can win and lose at his own squabble that everyone occupying the world around him is politely pretending not to notice, Logan’s feet deposit him in front of a long, wide, concrete staircase. Crowning the top is a set of sleek marble pillars, which frame a pair of gleaming gold and umber doors. Logan shrugs and starts climbing.

Just inside the doors—cool to the touch and smooth along the center from how many people handle them, if anyone’s keeping track—are a few white foldout tables, with a set of downdressed security guards to match. While the other three cast disinterested looks at Logan before focusing back on their pebbly table, one leaps to his feet and bounds over to Logan—that is, if a five foot man with wrists thick enough to wear headbands as bracelets can bound. The smile on his face is a stunning contrast to the bulky biceps rippling beneath the strict set of a pressed blue button-up and khakis.

“Visitor, student, or lost?” he asks. His voice sounds like someone tried to cut construction paper with safety scissors drenched in glue and glitter. But, like, in a good way. A youthful glow sort of voice, if that makes sense. Logan doesn’t get paid enough to be this observant at his internship, but at least it’s a decent form of entertainment.

“Sorry, I don’t—” Logan begins, but he can barely get the words out before the guard’s eyes drop to his stack of papers.

“Oh, ten dollars says you’re from Otalini High. Uniforms and a heavy workload, am I right?” The guard bends down to brace his hands on his knees, looking up and down at Logan’s pile. “Or maybe Allognathini, I hear there’s a major crackdown on physical evidence this year. Finals, am I right?”

Logan blinks.

“Nah, go with your gut,” the guard continues. His companions looks incredibly bored, but when Logan glances at them for a daring rescue, they make themselves look incredibly busy counting the tiles along the vaulted ceiling. “Anyhoodle, you got your student ID so I can sign you in?”

“I, um.” Logan hesitates, not sure how to dash this guard’s dreams of correctly guessing his high school. Especially when Logan graduated years ago.

“Gotcha, gotcha. Hands too full, am I right?” The guard scrabbles for a pen and paper from one of the tables. “How about I just write your ID number, and you can get back to me when you sign out?”

Logan decides bluntness is best. “I’m not a student.”

The guard freezes. “Are you sure you aren’t a student?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Really? Wow. Really?”

Logan does not particularly appreciate this guy’s incredulous tone. “Really. I’m just an intern at an office nearby, and I didn’t want to take my work home.”

“Got any ID to prove that?”

“No, but I’ve got this badge with my name and building clearance, and twenty dollars for a day pass to come in here.” Logan tilts his left shoulder forward, displaying the name badge.

“Oh, that’s not necessary—it’s free admission on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” Logan is doing his best not to be exasperated at the apparently unnecessary delay. He does not succeed. The guard claps Logan on the back with a laugh, watching him struggle to keep his papers in order. “If y’ever need anything, just holler. Name’s Patton, but I bet you knew that.” Logan bites his tongue to keep from asking how he could have possibly known that.

As his mind traces back over the stern red warning packed in his stack of papers and folders and, apparently, top secret developments, Logan absently hugs his arms closer to his chest. He veers left for what looks to be an abstract art exhibit, mercifully lacking in attendees. The expansive tiled room is dotted every few yards with an oversized (probably fake) palm tree, around which are plush red benches. Logan sits on the bench smack in the center of the room, hoping most people’s instincts to hug the walls will benefit him here. He sets the stack at his side and slips out a few pages, hiding the manila folder between plain, unassuming blue ones. Maintaining a cool nonchalance, he casts his eyes at a new painting every so often, pretending to take notes on them in the manila folder. He wonders whether he looks like a fool to be doing this, but ultimately decides he doesn’t care. At least, not until a gaggle of kids—clearly high school students—sweeps in.

Logan lowers the folder to his lap, pretending to deeply consider the mess of squares (with one disobedient circle, of course) on a canvas a few feet away from the storm of newcomers. A swarm of teens in deep maroon and navy blue, with the occasional plaid skirt or preppy blazer tossed in for flavor, stands in an obstructive huddle blocking the entrance. Some of the kids have their phones out and are typing furiously, others scribble on clipboards with pens and highlighters, and still more have their sleeves pushed past their elbows to scrawl along their forearms in sharpie.

At the head of it all is a single person in a dark green cardigan and tattered skinny jeans, waving his arms like a skydiving penguin and somehow commanding the undivided attention of a solid fifteen teenagers. One of the kids raises a pencil in the air—one of those overly expensive, engraved family heirlooms, to be sure—and points the eraser at the painting the guy in the cardigan is blocking. Cardigan Man wags a pair of finger guns at the kid before smacking a hand on the wall beside the painting. He opens his mouth as if to yell something, but only a whisper comes out, whatever it is sending the whole pack of students into a giggling fit. Logan scrunches his nose to adjust his glasses and pointedly stares at a corner of the painting, peeking out just past Cardigan Man’s right shoulder. It looks like a paintbrush sneezed on it. On—on the painting, not on Cardigan Man’s shoulder.

Logan shifts his focus to a different painting, panning his movement ahead a moment before the tour group continues to catch up to him. He finds his eyes drawn to the way the cardigan swishes, bouncing to the rhythm of the guy’s stride. Almost a glide, really, with how smoothly he moves. His head hardly bounces between his steps. Logan wonders whether he doesn’t have some dance experience under those heels that barely touch the ground.

“Group Theta of Otalini Prep, you are late for your report time to the lobby,” a cold voice announces from an outdated set of speakers mounted along the walls. “Proceed to the entrance doors immediately. Any delay in arrival will result in a ten percent dock to your final grade.” A panic flies through the group as they pocket their phones, clip their pens to their clipboards, and roll down their sleeves to hide the notes inked on their skin. They scramble for the exit, tossing out farewells and thank you’s to Cardigan Man as they barrel for the unsuspecting security guards. At least Patton will have people whose energies match his own for a while.

Cardigan Man—or Cadmium, as Logan decides he’s going to call him, because that makes so much more sense—rolls his shoulders forward and cracks the kinks in his neck, watching the last of the students race for the lobby. When no more teens appear to be forthcoming, he moves for Logan’s bench, sitting on the opposite side of it from him. Logan slips the manila folder back into his pile of papers, praying it hadn’t been sitting open on his lap that entire time as he feels for the pen Joy slipped behind his ear. Gone, of course, but that’s hardly surprising.

Logan slips a spare pen out of his pocket and tries to inconspicuously toss it across the floor, probably looking incredibly conspicuous as he does so. He scoops his papers under an arm and stands, bending down as he does so to pretend to search for his ‘lost’ pen. Every time he reaches it, he kicks it a few steps further, feigning lighthearted frustration at himself. It rapidly turns to genuine surprise when he walks straight into Cadmium—or, rather, into his legs, which are sprawled out and away from the bench. Logan snatches his pen and drops onto the bench a couple cushions away, staring at the ground and willing his face to stop burning. Oddly enough, Cadmium didn’t seem to notice. Logan pulls out his phone and fumbles around with the chess app, looking at absolutely anything besides Cadmium, who mercifully hasn’t questioned Logan’s blunder.

After what seems like hours, Logan dares a glance to his left and sees Cadmium’s head lolling back on the top of the bench. A peek at his phone reveals that only eleven minutes have passed. Logan decides his phone must be lying, but he looks closer at Cadmium anyway.

His lips are slightly parted, and if it weren’t for his closed eyes and the way his soft breaths are gently buffeting his purple bangs, Cadmium would look for all the world like he was simply admiring the underside of the fake leaves overhead. Logan cranes his own neck, wondering how that could possibly be a comfortable position for sleeping, but his curiosity subsides when he notices the design on Cadmium’s shirt. In a bright tennis ball green—or yellow, if you’re the kind of monster who thinks tennis balls are yellow—and a font that looks like comic sans got itself a two year degree in baking with a concentration in chocolate croissants, it reads ‘tour guide?’ Logan can’t decide whether it’s supposed to mean people are supposed to guide him on tours, ask him for tours, or question the validity of the tours he’s about to guide them on.

Near the entryway where Cadmium had first swept in, dripping in all his green cardigan-clad glory, a huddle of kids in shirts with ‘Allognathini’ scrawled across the front peers around the corner. They survey the room and murmur amongst themselves, several of them pausing to give Logan a once-over. His work clothes probably aren’t helping his whole ‘not a tour guide’ image. He elbows Cadmium on a hunch, looking anywhere but at him when he wakes.

Cadmium jerks up, recoiling from Logan’s touch and sweeping his fading purple bangs out of his face. His eyes lock on Logan’s obvious attempt at excessive nonchalance, then shift to the group of students. As Cadmium stands and rubs the sleep from his eyes, Logan dares another glance at him. Cadmium, of course, chooses that exact moment to turn back, his gaze locking with Logan’s.

Just to be clear, it isn’t love at first sight, so put that out of your mind before anything else. It’s hardly acquaintances at first sight. Cadmium shoots Logan a quick nod of thanks—barely a smile, let alone verbal acknowledgement of the favor—before setting off for the group. He properly musses up his hair as he goes, and Logan finds himself lingering on the army of bracelets and rings peeking out from under the cardigan sleeve. With every step he takes, Cadmium melts deeper into the swagger he had with the earlier tour group—a complete and near-unrecognizable one-eighty from the exhausted (albeit peaceful) face passed out on the bench mere minutes ago.

If you asked Logan why he kept coming back to the art museum after that unplanned first visit, he’d tell you it was because of the calm atmosphere and visually interesting environment. This would be a lie, but it’s still what he would tell you. What he probably would not tell you (the truth, to be clear) is that he’s incredibly interested in seeing the other hundred and seventy nine degrees woven into Cadmium’s cardigan.

But yes, all of this to say that Logan returns to the museum several times, long after completing the workload in his top secret packet, and he almost never says a word to Cadmium. He simply arrives, deals with Patton, and observes the rest. A few failed attempts to cross paths with the tour guide make it increasingly obvious that Cadmium only ever makes an appearance on Tuesdays and Thursdays—free admission days, though Logan is still waiting for the jury to come back on whether that’s a coincidence or not.

More often than not, Logan will actively try to avoid Cadmium (once he’s verified the tour guide is, you know, there ), but apparently his tours span the entire museum, so there’s no escaping the guy. He eventually sheds his pride over the whole thing about eight visits later and tags along on a tour populated by small children with bookish helicopter parents. He makes a point not to join any of the high school tours, though, as that would look more than a little odd, but he admires how differently Cadmium presents information between students getting a grade and people just enjoying a day at a museum. Where students hear all about the artist’s lives and how their upbringing could provide a unique perspective on possible interpretations of the underlying meanings in their work, children tend to get illuminati-style rabbit holes. One of Logan’s favorite pastimes—after finishing any leftover work he didn’t leave at the office, of course—is tracking how many layers Cadmium can go into about each painting. While eight tours isn’t a very big sample to pull from, Cadmium has managed to not repeat any of his conspiracy theories, not even when discussing completely disparate works.

The best rabbit hole Logan has heard so far is as follows: “The tree is green, which is the color of money, the printing of which is directly correlated to inflation, which is also a noun used to discuss blowing up balloons. Bombs also blow up, and bombs are the bob-ombs in super mario bros. I used to play the demos of those games on the display consoles at Target. A target is used in archery, which is a sport. Soccer is also a sport. Soccer is called football in Germany. Germany participated in a war. So did the United States of America, also known by the acronym ‘USA.’ JPEG is also an acronym, which is a manner of lossy compression for digital images, circa wikipedia’s contribution from Richard F. Haines’ 1992 technical report. Therefore, this painting is loss dot jpg.”

Logan still hasn’t worked out whether Cadmium rehearsed all that or just made it up on the spot.

The first time he finally spoke to the guy—this being right after Cadmium had made a stunning connection between petticoats and ukuleles, mind you—he was wrapping up a tour and making a beeline for the door. Even as Logan held back, content to watch him push up the sleeves of his cardigan to check his watch, Cadmium seemed a little hesitant to go. He turned back and spoke in a much less cheery tone than Logan had come to expect from the tours. “What’s your deal?”

This gives Logan a moment’s pause, to put it gently. To put it bluntly, it feels like a flying bowling ball buried itself in his abdomen. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re always hanging around my tours, so what’s your deal? Do you want, like, a private tour or something? Are you an overachieving Otalinite? Because I don’t really do personal tours, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Oh, no, I, um,” Logan stutters, his fluttery hands finding a panicked home near his collarbone. “I’m, ah, I’m not a student.”

“Good for you, fight the system. I still don’t do private tours.”

Logan bites at his lower lip, uncertain how to respond. “Got it. Sorry, did you want me to stop tagging along on your tours, or…?”

Cadmium crosses his arms and looks Logan up and down. Logan wonders whether he’s secretly unimpressed with what he sees. “Nah, you look smart enough to draw in parents that want to breed genius children. Just stop pretending not to notice when I pass you with a group of students in tow, yeah? It’s weird, and you’re not fooling anyone.” He sticks his hand out. Logan stares at it, baffled. “This is the part where you shake it,” he says in a stage whisper. “Stop peddling your D level act of passivity and you can keep tagging along, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Logan finally says, shaking the hand. It’s colder than he’d expected—somewhere around freezing, actually.

“Cool. See you Tuesday, then.” Cadmium breaks off the handshake first. Logan watches him go, warming up his chilled fingers with his other hand.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Wrought Iron Machine (Part 22)

They are two weeks into the final month before Southern Air Sounds and Azula’s voice is still dreadfully hoarse and she knows that she is pushing herself. Still, she can’t cancel the show, it will only prove to Ozai that he is right, that she doesn’t have what it takes. She can’t imagine that her struggles are going unnoticed; for her last few shows she has done more of their cleaner songs. And for this one she is switching roles with Zuko entirely. Even this is hurting her sensitive throat. She finds it hard to hit and to hold notes. Still she keeps going, if there is one thing her father has done well for her, it is teaching her to carry on until the fight completely leaves her body...and then to push on regardless until the fight leaves her spirit too.

The man isn’t the crowd this time around and she thanks Agni for that. She knows that he can tell when she is having a hard time. She knows that he likes to exploit it almost as much as the tabloids do.

Such news outlets have already taken to addressing certain speculations. They have range from more optimistic theories; that Fire Of Agni is experimenting again, that they will be making an album where Zuko does the screaming and Azula takes the more elegant parts. To dismal ones that touch on the truth; that there is something wrong with Azula. More specifically that something is wrong with her voice. There are even more miserable theories that her voice has already been damaged beyond repair and that she is simply singing until she physically can no more.

She wishes that they would stop the speculation and just see how things unfold.

With every difficult note, Azula knows that her voice is deteriorating a little more. She doesn’t want to skip the encore, but when she places her microphone into its stand, she knows that she won’t be picking it up again to night.

Azula speaks to TyLee if for no other reason than to tester her own vocal strength. There is hardly any power in her words as she asks TyLee if she can sing her parts in the encore song.

TyLee gives a nervous nod and Azula can’t tell if it is attributed to concern for her girlfriend or stagefright grade jitters. She quietly assures TyLee that she will do fine and that, in the brief window wherein the audience is left hanging to build anticipation, that she will have their tech crew fashion TyLee an improvised microphone.

Somewhat anxious Azula speaks to the crowd, thanking them for attending and showing interest in Sun warrior culture. She bids them a good night. It all comes out in a rather unpleasant rasp and she is under the impression that the crowd knows that they won’t be getting a full-scale encore.

She waits behind stage for the rest of her band to continue their encore, filling the time with calling for an appointment with a doctor. Doctor Fing-Sho has an impeccable reputation with fellow musicians. The man has even worked with some of the legends such as the frontman of Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz.

Unfortunately he is booked through the better part of the week. It makes her nervous being so close to Southern Air Sounds. She books herself soonest appointment--a week from now and two weeks from Southern Air Sounds.

That is much too close for comfort. Still, the last thing she needs is to go to a shadier doctor and have her voice truly ravaged. At the very least, from the sound of it, she will be in esteemed hands.

.oOo.

Kuvira is dressed to the nines. She had been anyhow; currently she is slipping out of her heels, Baatar holding her steady as she does so; the baby bump and her altered center of gravity are taking some getting used to. She moves the pair of shoes out of the doorway and begins taking off her jewelry. She slips each piece into her coat pocket starting with the earrings and ending with the bracelet and necklace. She leaves a single ring on her finger.

The ring that Baatar had put there near the end of a rooftop dinner that had gone over well.

It had been a surprisingly sweet ordeal. Kuvira just wanted to talk things over in the loft, but Baatar insisted on a fancier place. She had wanted to question in, but decided against doing so and caved.

She supposes that it would have been lackluster to propose to her--for a second time--in her humble loft.

Mostly they had discussed matters of the band but with a sprinkle of personal issues. She hadn’t realized that she had made him feel insufficient and inadequate, like his ideas weren’t of substance. But Raava did she understand why he had been hurt when he had clarified. As far as Wrought Iron Machine went, directionally, at that point she was pretty open to anything and she guessed that, that alone made making amends less painful. He seemed to have so many ideas and she was willing to hear them out. It helped further that the food had satisfied a craving or two and that Baatar had requested one of her favorite songs to dine to.

All in all, the only hiccup in their night had been the flashing of cameras. She had decided to let it go, under the impression that it was probably a good thing to let the public know that they were working things out.

Kuvira undresses and puts on something more comfortable before joining Baatar on the sofa. The man offers her a glass of wine. It amuses her how painfully oblivious he can be. She denies the glass and notes the look of disappointment on his face. She will clear that up in a moment.

“You said that you had something else to tell me.” Baatar notes once the disappointment subsides.

Kuvira nods. “Yes.” She pauses. “I am glad that you came back.”

“I think that you’ve said that already.” He sips his own wind. “Several times.”

“Yes, well…” She trails off. “It is hard to raise a child and manage a band on your own.”

She is glad that it took him a moment to process what she’d just said, lest he choke on his drink. “Good thing we don’t have a kid.” He laughs awkwardly.

Kuvira raises a brow. “Not yet.” She lifts her pajama top some.

For a relatively short span of time Baatar simply takes to staring at the bump she holds her hand to. After coming to conclude that he isn’t just teasing him he cups his hand over hers and gives her the kind kiss she has missed.

It suddenly seems so ridiculous that she had almost let the man go over a matter so trivial.

She lets him lean against her as they had done so many times before. Much to the annoyance of Gazahn they fell asleep on the sofa, leaving him unable to sit upon it and watch his favorite movers.

.oOo.

Azula rigidly sits in the doctor’s office. Zuko sits across the room with Mai and TyLee is next to her, gripping her hand. Fing-Sho enters with a simple greeting. After introductions are aside he begins with a standard check up. Save for her beaten voice, she is in good condition, not that she had expected any different.

It isn’t until his hands, coated in spirit-vine sap, feel her throat that concern flashes across his face. He is quiet for a moment. “Do you want…”

“I want you to get straight to the point.” Azula cuts in. She doesn’t mean to be rude, yet she needs to know what she is dealing with.

“If the spirit vines have painted the right picture, I believe that you have a cyst on your vocal cords.”

Azula swallows, she can feel tears welling behind her eyes. Logic tells her to ask how it is possible. But she already knows. She knows that she hasn’t quite taken care of her voice. “Can you fix it?” She asks instead.

“I believe so.” He smiles.

It is a relief to hear.

“It will take surgery followed by some vocal therapy.”

“When can you perform the operation?” Zuko asks for her.

Fing-Sho peers at his clipboard and then back up at Azula. “I will place an order for the proper equipment, it should arrive anywhere from two to three weeks from now--most likely three, if you want the best quality equipment--we can begin then.”

The tearful pressure behind her eyes intensifies. Two weeks would land her an appointment during Southern Air Sounds. Three would allow for the competition to pass with her voice still in disrepair. She swallows again.

“Until then, I recommend that you refrain from speaking more than necessary. Don’t put any excess strain on your vocal cords or you might do some permanent damage.”

At this Azula’s throat runs dry.

How can they have come so far only to lose their opportunity at the last minute?

.oOo.

It is a controlled chaos that they have created. A strange blend of brass and classical string instruments with a dash of modern guitars.

They don’t have the luxury of traveling far and wide so they look closer to home. They have happened upon an abandoned and tattered theater and that is strangely perfect for the new, new sound.

It is a jarring blend of orchestra and jazz, sweeping from one genre to the next and sometimes all at once. Hectic and frenzied like the turmoil of having to switch sounds. Such is the nature of their lyrics. The disorientation of trying something new. The fear behind the risk.

The darkness of the theater dusty cobwebbed theater seems to highlight what it means to go in blind. A ray of sunlight filters in through the cracked window. Dust motes sparkle within it, casting an effect that would be pleasant for their music mover.

The sunlight also puts a glimmer on the collar of Kuvira’s dress. She wears a deep green gown that hugs tightly to her figure. She knows that the public will discover her pregnancy on their own so she may as well just make it apparent in her music mover. Next to her, Baatar has himself dressed in a velvet dress coat with copper buttons and a brown top hat. His task is to conduct the orchestra as she sings.

A little over four months along, Kuvira has to take breaks more frequently, with the baby starting to kick and shift with more energy. She seats herself in one of the dusty velvet cushioned chairs. She fixes her gaze to stare out of the window. She is beginning to worry that they still won’t be able to perform at Southern Air Sounds; on occasions the baby will shift in just the wrong way, leaving her short of breath. She supposes that she’ll only have to get through three songs; two old and one new. Even so, by the time Southern Air Sounds rolled around, she will find herself nearly five months pregnant; she can’t imagine that, that will make it any easier.

The rest of her band is mercifully patient as she waits for the ache in her back to pass. Ghazan in particular seems to enjoy being able to take frequent breaks. Baatar ends his conversation with P’Li and comes to stand beside Kuvira. “Orange?” He offers, handing her the fruit. He also hands her a bottle of water. She decides that she will put an end to her break as soon as she is through with the orange. Baatar offers her shoulders a gentle massage.

She is glad to have the man back. Raava knew she couldn’t handle this one on her own. She supposes that she can if she has to, but she certainly doesn’t want to. She stands back up, ready to resume the filming process.

Despite the physical setbacks, filming is easier this time around, more comfortable in a sense. For one, she doesn’t have sand coating every part of her body. For another she feels as though the music and the mover themselves are on par with past works. It gives her a sense of ease to know that Baatar’s vocals are complementing hers once more. That the fandom will enjoy the reunion. That they are looking forward to their redemption music mover.

She still finds it hard to believe that they will manage to finish this video and song in such a timely manner and with almost a whole week to spare.

[charactersadvocatechimata]

Fata Morgana

Here is a preview of the WinterIron I’m working on. Full chapter should be uploaded on Ao3 by the 31st.

People will lie. There is no avoiding that. Nod on cue and politely smile. Think nothing of it. People will lie. When to be cautious, is not at a lie, but at a deflection. Those that distract with blinding smile or a song or an extravagant gesture. Be wary. Fae will bait you away with desires and dreams. Spirited away. Never to return. Be wary.

At least that’s what Ma would say. On loud nights, when the men of Brooklyn would gather to drink and sing. Loud to chase away dark idealizations. She would cuddle him close. Whisper stories of beautiful people who lead good Catholics astray. Of heroes that braved enchanted towers and won against seduction.

Of course, that memory could have been its own seductive dream. Memory was a tricky beast even for the day-to-day people. Having your brain cooked sunny side up by Hydra doesn’t improve things either. Not that anyone thinks it would. Late night television is not selling electroshocks as the cure for old age memory loss.

So Bucky was on the fence about his current situation. Did Tony Stark really kidnap him? If anyone were crazy enough to abduct the Winter Soldier, Stark would be on that list. Well, in his humble opinion. Crazy people never seem to think things through, either. Take, for example, Bucky’s bindings. Rope couldn’t stop an assassin. The Winter Soldier is a super assassin. Rope was cake on a silver platter of escape.

Escape. Right. The hero always struggles to escape. But he has lived far too long to be considered a hero. Heroes hope for humanity’s salvation. Not eternal sleep.

“Boss, I think the Princess is awake.”

Princess?! Oh, that was close. A slight twitch might go unnoticed but slamming his fists against the floor would not.

“Are you sure?”

Something jabs him twice in the shoulder. By some mercy, it was the shoulder attached to the meat arm. Even so, it’s still a jab into sensitive squish parts. But his body remains still. Thank Hydra for unparallel pain tolerance. Ha!

“Friday. How do you tell if a possum is playing dead?”

“It depends on the possum, I think.” A static hum consumes the quiet of the room. “You could draw something unflattering on his forehead.”

“Oh, love it.”

Something pops, and the stick of non-drinkable alcohol tickles his nose. Stark wouldn’t? Would he? Fuck crazy people and their unpredictable tendencies.

“Is this necessary? Couldn’t you just kill me? No reason to desecrate my body.” Bucky slams his hands between himself and the red marker. A wall to protect him from whatever Stark wanted to draw on his face. Probably something worse than the standard dick drawing.

Stark’s eyes trail from Bucky to the marker. A marker that’s only an inch from Bucky’s face. Then pouts. A full pout only found in cartoons with sings birds and large reflective eyes. Seriously. What is so exciting about drawing on a tired man’s face? Or putting starfish magnets on his metal arm?

“We're not going to kill you, Barnes.”

Bucky shifts his eyes around the room. Empty except for the crazy rich man with a marker and himself. No woman, he can’t help but imagine as a redhead. Stark does not voice a comment or give any indication of the location of the third human. In the security office? Remaining far away from Hydra’s favorite killing machine. Perhaps, some who isn’t crazy.

“Right now.”

Stark continues to fiddle with the marker refusing to put the damn thing done. To give up the grand opportunity to use Bucky’s forehead as paper. Not even the quality stuff. No, the scraps an artist uses to doodle.

“Has anyone told you that you resemble a depressing sandwich? And despite what the fire department may tell you, or Pepper for that matter. I know what I'm talking about. I have made my share of depressing sandwiches. Mostly, with mustard.” Stark makes a sweeping motion with the marker- still uncapped. “I tired honey dijon once because a random website told me too. I must say, I prefer mustard.”

The marker jumps up and twirls with the rhythm of Stark’s words in complete sync. A remarkable feat considering he had forgotten all about said writing utensil. Or that’s what Bucky hopes. He’s nice like that.

“What does food have to do with any of this?”

The marker is finally capped, and Stark frowns. Yet doesn’t say a thing. Did Bucky actually say anything? He is far too used to keeping any thought to himself. Stark dropped the marker. Bucky grabs it, just to make sure, while Stark turns away. More silence. Hardly illuminating to what the rats running Stark’s crazy brain thinks.

For a single heartbeat, Stark stilled between one step and the next. In that one thump of his heart, Stark stand between two thoughts. Is he turning his back on a weapon or a monster? Hydra handlers were quick to dismiss the Asset as a simple weapon. Yet he was required to present a gun to the handler if they were alone. As protection from a monster. Which will Stark choose?

Bucky doesn’t expect an answer. Doesn’t get one either. Stark simple takes his next step then another. Until he completely leaves Bucky’s line of sight.

Free from the ropes, and, as far as he can tell, alone in an empty meeting room. Bucky plots. Or at least takes another look around. There is a large table and a lot of chairs. Too many chairs. And windows blacked out. Standard stuff for the business life.

Except.

“Please, remain inside the room.”

The voice. Again. He does not like voices without bodies. There is nothing to stab if there is no body. “Do I have a reason to leave?”

“To destroy. As is your nature.”

“Is that why you will be deactivating and destroying me? For my sins? Or for Stark’s grudge?”

“I think justice is more appropriate. Don’t you, Barnes?”

“Is it just me or did this whole room get several degrees more depressing?” Stark returned holding a plate that looks like a mini Captain America shield with two sandwiches. Another was between his teeth. Already half eaten. He blinks, nose twitching and the sandwich disappears with the last bite. “Are you having a showdown with My AI?” The plate is held high even as Stark tilts his head to the side. “You shouldn’t. She cheats.”

{Comment about AI}

“I do not. I am a proper lady.”

“That cheats and starts fights with cyborgs.”

“I didn’t start anything. But I will finish it.”

Friday, as Stark called the ceiling, ends the sentence with enough implied judgment to anchor an entire fleet of ships. During a heavy storm. But Bucky didn’t start shit. No matter how the ceiling paints it.

Well…

There was the whole thing with Steve.

“I made you depressing sandwiches.” Stark shoves the plate into Bucky’s personal bubble. It is presented with the same pride a child presents a gift to their mother. “There is mustard and tomatoes. Salami. Maybe. The evidence is uncertain.”

Well, the sandwiches look innocent enough sitting on the mini shield. The bread is white with seeds. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Just different. There is definitely the strong fatty smell of salami. More of a last meal than what Hydra would offer. Looks good, too.

Taking the food incites Stark to grin, small but bright, like a star off in the distance. How easy it would be for Stark’s blinding smiles to hide all sorts of grime. Pierce could disarm anyone with a smile as well, even Fury.

Stark gave him a sandwich at least.

“Now, according to personal experience, it’s time for the evil monologue. The fun part.”

Bucky takes a bite. Otherwise, etiquette would dictate that he respond. And Stark has a crazy sparkle in his eyes. Never respond to the crazy. That and silence is easy. Nodding is easy. People usually just continue when he nods.

“Right! So last night or the prior evening or something. Not important. What is important is that a waking dream gave me an idea. And no it wasn’t a dream. I was definitely awake. Dreams usually have someone screaming.” Stark’s hand smacks the notion away. “Nor was I hallucinating. You can’t trust hallucinations. But this is a good idea. A genius idea!” His other hand shoots straight into the air.

“What idea?” The fucking moron asks. You’d never figure Buck’s been around for hundred years. He knew not to engage the crazy. Bucky blames the second sandwich. Didn’t get into his mouth fast enough. Fucker.

Stark is too crazy to catch Bucky’s mental stumble. But the AI. The AI is judging him. Judging and laughing it up. Silently. Like a dick. Dick.

“Revenge! Because what else can I do? It’s either this or a time machine. And I promise I was going to go with the time machine. But Pepper vetoed that. Which fair. No one wants me running around in the time stream. I wouldn’t be able to help myself even knowing I’d probably fuck it up.”

Stark flexes his right hand. He stops to stare at the fingers curling and uncurling, grasping for something. “I keep having that same dream. It only got worse after. Zombie Steve with the shield. Blaming me. For fucking up. Not doing enough. Always saying the wrong thing. I work and go to therapy. But the dreams remain. The bodies piling up.” His eyes slide shut. One last time those fingers curl then clench tight.

“So I kidnapped you.” Stark spreads his arms out wide. “Part of it was panic. Rhodey may have destroyed the ancient technology that might have been a mobile phone. Hard to say, archeology isn’t my strong suit. Whatever. I do know he dropped it down the Mariana Trench. But I would be surprised if it survived. And Steve.”

The stars vanish from his eyes. His arms are slammed from the air by gravity. “No, it’s Rogers now. Rogers.” Stark’s mumbling to himself now. His audience forgot.

Because what? Bucky’s just chopped liver. Not the intend audience. Fuck that. He’ll just be stupid and blame it on Hydra. Hydra played happy sack with electricity and his brain. He has earned at least using them as an excuse.

“Why would ‘Pepper’ nix the time machine?”

Bucky could actually see Stark remember he had an audience. His eyes blinking and tilting. His gaze landing on Bucky. And the ‘oh’ formed on his lips. Like prose on a page in a fairytale book for children.

“I told you.”

“Yeah, I got that. But there is no way you could build a time machine that goes back in time. Pretty sure Einstein nixed that.”

“I could.”

Sure. Maybe if he had another hundred years or so. But Bucky ain’t holding his breath.

This whole thing is a farce. Like Stark’s the only one hunted by ghosts. Everyone’s got nightmares. Bucky’s got seventy years to fuel his phantoms and shadows. World War 2. Hydra. The Red Room. But he fucking buries it. Right next to the bodies. Smiles and grins instead. Fucking telling stories from the 1930’s he isn’t sure he remembers or read in Rogers’ file. Writing broken dreams in journals that switch from Russian to English to Italian to German.

And for fucking what. To be used against Stevie. Again. “I refuse.” And fuck him.

“Okay.” Stark nods. Takes back the plate, gripping it to his chest. Takes a step back. Grins and bows. A grand gesture indicating the open door. A showman’s bow ending the play, waiting for the curtains to fall. But for all it’s supposed glam it’s dull. All the color that made Stark shine shut away. With a delicate slam. Something that might even go unnoticed.

Again there is that silent laughter. Mocking him.

But sunlight is pushing itself inside. Bucky follows the light out. Stark had been right. The room was depressing. The blinding hallway wasn’t much better.

Bucky wants his goggles.